"timecard" poems
Some kind of craftsman is working at his bench
Peeling ribbons of soft wood under a dim lamp
He watches the growing pile of discarded strips.
The timecard is now an electronic monitor
An old woman at the factory wishes
That it were instead a thick piece of yellowing cardstock
So that she could use a hole punch.
Somebody’s daughter is dancing naked in the yard
A business man drives by and hopes that somebody will photograph her.
He is remembering the blush on his lover’s face
When he first saw the photo of her and her sisters
Flat chested, unclothed, and splashing together in the bath.
The waitress from town has left for school.
Somebody there is brushing the hair away from her eyes
And wondering whether or not it is a good moment to kiss her.
Meanwhile there is a young man sitting in his regular spot in her diner
Wondering if her eyes really were the color of the winter grass
He is contemplating joining the army.
A wiry beggar is sitting outside of a convenience store
He asks for a cigarette and gets not even a sideward glance
Later he asks a thin, young thing for a few dollars
Once she is gone he goes inside to buy a pack
And smokes them immediately.
There is a funeral processional going through town.
There is a woman at the end driving with clenched hands
She feels guilty because of her anger
But the traffic is making her late for work.
You may now kiss the bride.
And he does.
The older women are crying.
Without any of these things
It seems we would be left with nothing,
but an insatiable thirst for punctuation.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
the speed parallel of Me-These-Days
is the blur of sun
and the slide of cold night.
and they taunt me, those stars
as they wobble on the wall
and the shadows tumble in my sight.
under my lashes, the darkness grows long
in my inside out mind
in my upside down heart
learning to love lose and forget you
is this flawed art
I have to work to remember
and struggle to stop
shutting my brain down
like a tapped out beat
cop.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
Deliver me, with magic spell,
with gliding bow and ringing bell,
from this dark and dreary mood so fell.
The clock counts its minutes and its hours;
we obey its rhythmic, ordered powers
in the prisons of our shining towers.
The clock is but an artifice
from a tyrant’s workshop’s abyss.
Time was made for more than this.
Count not the hours, but the beat,
tap it with your dancing feet,
clap it, sing it, in the street.
A flute of bone was made before
the timecard and the clock kept score.
Our forbears knew what time was for.
Apr 13, 2024
Apr 13, 2024 at 9:31 PM UTC
I.
Life is easy, really.
Poetry should be as straightforward
As the click of a 9-5 timecard approval.
Harry had a real tough week--
Fell in love with an exhibitionist, poor son of a *****
II.
One minute you’re dancing bachata
To the full eight count,
Trying to ****** a woman in Chinese--
Not. Easy.
Waking up to a cold ******* shower
In God knows where Brisbane.
III.
And then in the blink of an eye. Click.
Mary Sou had a hemorrhage and you swear
Eileen just flew the bird in cahoots
With Ida. East, West, trump four of hearts,
Absolute ********
Roll me back pronto, Heidi.
I don’t surround myself with cheaters.
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 1:03 PM UTC